


Shadows of Rome

by Madoshi, pennypaperbrain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Blood and Gore, Dark!Mycroft, Fic in translation, Horror, Italy, Other, Science Fiction, dark!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-13
Updated: 2013-11-13
Packaged: 2018-01-01 09:23:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,816
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1043155
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain/pseuds/pennypaperbrain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is a sociopath. But he likes people. And dogs.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Shadows of Rome

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Тени Рима](https://archiveofourown.org/works/815699) by [black_knight_team](https://archiveofourown.org/users/black_knight_team/pseuds/black_knight_team), [Madoshi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Madoshi/pseuds/Madoshi). 



> Huge thanks to [pennypaperbrain](http://archiveofourown.org/users/pennypaperbrain) who lent me her brilliance to make this less awkward. I'm not a native speaker and do not use English casually, so all the mistakes left are my own.
> 
> Cover by Eleanor Rigby  
> 

John Watson loved Rome for its bright sunshine, orange trees growing right on the streets and the feeling it gave of being fully alive.

Back in Britain, nobody needed a retired army officer or a GP with a suspicious seven-year gap in his CV. But the Catholic University in Rome swiftly nabbed a patient and strict teacher of medical English and refused to let him go.

He managed to get a nice flat, with an almost cosy attic bedroom where one wall was actually a roof slanting almost down to the floor. By the time he’d been there for two months, the owner of the pleasant cafe under his windows had memorized his schedule and always knew when he would limp down the stairs and take his seat, opening an international edition of _The_ _Times_. And his flatmate...

Best not to talk about Sherlock Holmes. Nobody like him could possibly exist in London.

Sometimes John Watson blessed the moment when he’d received an e-mail from Mike Stamford asking if John wanted to take up this lecturer position.

And sometimes he didn't. Like tonight, in the ruthless halogen shine of the police spotlights above the cooling body of a beautiful young woman.

The spotlights were casting sickly shadows on Sherlock's face, making it angular and forbidding, pale to the point of being blue, with inhumanly protruding cheekbones and eyes like deep wells under thick brows. And his hands were clutched as if in prayer. A creature of shadows, he was.

Beautifully cut shapes of umbrella pines in the darkening sky, with their deformed trunks and wide canopies high above the ground, looked like mushroom clouds of silent nuclear explosions or pieces of dark wings on the shards of bones.

The body was inexplicably lying on the lawn in the park of villa Ada, in the shadow of an enormous, ominous-looking oak. It was positioned at the centre of a circle of undisturbed grass watered by sprinklers. Not a trace of a killer.

The woman was clad in a dressing gown and had smeary traces of eye-liner on her face.

John didn't speak much Italian, but even he was able to grasp that _capo ispettore_ Lotti, a sturdy fortysomething woman, was reproaching Sherlock for his inaction. Well, she had a point, as this was the fifth victim of a single maniac, and all the deaths had occurred with a month. This was the second time Sherlock had been invited to the crime scene. The first time he’d blurted out a chain of brilliant deductions, then cut himself off in the middle and fell silent. Now he didn't say anything at all.

"Do you understand, Signor Holmes, I'm doing you a favour here?" Lotti said. "I know it's like a drug for you, and I'm your dealer... I can deny you access..."

Suddenly, for a moment, something seemed to be crawling under Sherlock's skin, trying to rip through... John shook his head. Sherlock was regarding _capo ispettore_ with utter boredom and disdain. It no longer looked like his mask of a face was ready to split and reveal fangs that would slash the policewoman in two. 

 

***

 

John hated Rome.

He hated it for the choking heat in the middle of the day, when only tourists were crazy enough to venture onto the streets. He hated the bird droppings everywhere on the domes and sculptures, which nobody cared to wash away. He hated Rome’s tatty buildings, with walls that closed in on you as soon as you stepped off the tourist routes. He hated the ghastly local tea, and...

He hated Rome because it had introduced him to Sherlock Holmes. A strange, alien creature who had somehow managed to crawl under John Watson's skin, into his very blood.

They got acquainted by chance. A tourist fainted, John diagnosed heat stroke and shouted at the woman's mother to call an ambulance instead of nagging her daughter to stand up and go to see the Saint Peter cathedral because she was ‘all right now’. Why did he have to get mixed up in it?

Then the sick woman grasped his hand, digging her nails into his skin, and didn't let go until he went with her to the hospital (which fortunately was right around the corner). Hospital staff promptly interrogated John in awkward English, then released him. He lost his way in strangely empty darkened corridors and somehow found himself in the morgue. Perhaps he was subconsciously seeking a cooler place.

In the morgue, a thin, a curly-haired stranger with a face you wouldn't want to look at twice was methodically sniffing corpses and recording the data on a hi-tech mobile device. Without tearing his eyes from the screen, he said to John in the clearest Oxbridge English:

"A fellow Brit, I see, and a doctor too! That could come in handy. And that hostel is practically robbing you. Move to my place. The attic room is vacant and we’ll both save on rent."

John wondered if he had a touch of sunstroke.

"You’re sniffing corpses," he said.

"Trying to determine their palatability," the man grinned, wide and unnatural. "You could say I'm a people person."

He took out a bilingual business card and handed it to John. The card gave his job as "consulting detective" and suggested that only interesting cases be brought to his attention.

John immediately realized he was done for.

To be more precise, he only suspected it then, but his suspicion was confirmed not much later, on the same evening, when he took his worn-out backpack into the attic room after having run across rooftops chasing a maniac who had managed to torture three people to death in his hideout in the very centre of Rome.

Well, ‘torture’ is one way of putting it... He just injected them with a neuroparalytic formula, left a scalpel beside them and suggested they "manage the pain and live through the next hour." The least messy case was when a guy pricked out his own eyes and then got to his brain.

Then, just a couple of days later, Sherlock and John found one more hideout. It also contained a body, just one — a young man of very impressive build, not listed as a missing person. It looked as if he’d been held in the cellar for about two weeks subdued by some yet-unspecified sedative, and then killed. Though precisely how he was killed was still unknown, because his insides and blood were missing. Chopped limbs were neatly stacked to one side.

"A typical ‘vase’ case," _capo inspettore_ grimaced while her assistant was off to the side throwing up. "As a rule it's young women we find like this, though."

"Unusual sexual proclivities and good knowledge of medicine," Sherlock shrugged. "Probably."

Having said this, he smiled a little unnervingly above the bowed head of _ispettore_ (she was arguing with someone over the phone about the search for missing viscera in very quick Italian). John felt goosebumps prickling down his spine. Somehow he was absolutely sure that Sherlock was smiling for him.

Afterwards, when they were drinking piping hot coffee in the equally intense heat of a cafe terrace, John asked, as if casually

"What did you mean, 'probably'?"

"I meant that the killer's sexual peculiarities are relevant only if the murder had a sexual motive. If the killer was simply hungry, all that really mattered was the size of the helping."

Sherlock spoke in a dry, business-like manner, as if he was well-accustomed to dealing with these things. Which he probably was.

But John wanted to be spared the discussion. He wasn’t used to things like this, and didn’t fancy getting used to them.

"You know, cannibalism is also associated with sexual deviations," John said as evenly as he could manage.

"What a boring notion," Sherlock smiled charmingly. "Well, considering how boring human sexual acts are, one can hardly blame people for trying to add some diversity."

John didn't know if he should turn and run, or give up and snigger shamelessly. Torn by contradictory urges, he just took another sip of coffee instead.

 

***

 

In his first night at the new apartment John slept soundly. He dreamt about his parents' house in Glasgow (well before everything went to hell and John ran away to London, as if there were no decent universities in Edinburgh) and of the soft rattle of raindrops on the roof. The rain was washing away his cares.

There were white marble statues of Greek gods sitting at the head and foot of his bed, clad in dark blue with shining, transparent eyes. They were staring at John. They were waiting. There was something worrying about them, but mostly they seemed beautiful, like snowy mountaintops in the bright summer sun. John was lying in a sleep-like stupor, unable to move his limbs, and a deep voice, not unlike his flatmate's, was whispering unintelligible words in his ear.

It was kind of a nice change after the nightmares of Afghanistan.

When John woke up, his wrists were itching, but it didn't concern him. He only thought that maybe he should change his brand of laundry detergent, but forgot about it by the afternoon.

 

***

 

Once Sherlock brought home a dog. John was surprised. His flatmate had never struck him as an animal lover. Apparently he’d picked up an adolescent pup somewhere in the streets.

"Its master got fed up with it and threw it out," he explained. "It would be dead if not for me." 

When John reached out to pet the whimpering pup, Sherlock snapped.

"Don't touch it!"

"Why?" asked John incredulously.

"This is _my_ dog," Sherlock answered almost threateningly. " _I_ found him."

"OK," John snorted. "Wasn't going to eat him." 

That earned him a positively murderous glance from Sherlock.

For two weeks Gladstone, as Sherlock called the pup, followed his master, ran to his bowl, woke John up in the mornings by barking and on the whole behaved as dogs are supposed to. Sherlock petted him, let him crawl up his lap and generally seemed to treat him benevolently. Then the dog fell unusually silent. For two days he simply lay asleep in his basket, getting up only to drink water. Behind Sherlock's back John dared to touch the pup. Gladstone opened his round brown eyes, yawned, licked John's palm and shifted a little to make himself comfortable. His nose was wet and he didn't look ill, but John couldn't be sure.

On the third day Sherlock said that he would take Gladstone to the vet, and just like that they were gone.

Sherlock returned alone, carrying the leash and the collar. He said that the dog had been put to sleep and ignored John's awkward condolences.

 

***

 

On his second night in the new flat John didn't dream of the statues. He dreamt of something else, something dark, shining and magnificent. It encompassed him and devoured him and nothing could be better than this. 

He woke up with tears of euphoria in his eyes and felt no pain or fear of the future for a whole two seconds – just blessed, sweet calm.

 

***

 

On his third night he had no dreams. On the fourth, the Afghani nightmares came back. But this time round they were lifeless, as if seen through grainy glass, and then they were overtaken by peaceful dreams, something colourful, meaningless and about space. He never woke up after these dreams, he just fell deeper and deeper into sleep... He opened his eyes only when the sun was already shining through the window, and felt incredibly rested.

Life with Sherlock was definitely good for him despite the unstable "working hours”. His limp was almost gone and he’d made much more progress with Italian than he expected.

It was just that his wrists were still itching in the mornings. And he had this strange, elusive feeling that he was never completely alone. As if Sherlock was always _watching_ , even when John was hosting a lecture or trying to chat up a girl in a cafe.

Sherlock's habit of talking to John when John was away only aggravated matters.

From time to time the cold feeling would descend from John's nape down his spine, and he would start to imagine that the ice of this invisible stare was absorbing him.

Then, when he saw Sherlock circling another body or the location of a robbery, talking three deductions a second, the feeling would transform into something easy, blissful, and powerful, and he would stop imagining.

 

***

 

"It's very inconvenient that you believe your affairs are more important than mine," said Sherlock once, when John refused to come running to investigate the theft of a Da Vinci sketch.

"It's only human nature," John replied.

His answer was brief out of necessity: at the time they were standing on the cornice of an ancient baroque building, holding onto the plasterwork. This position was not particularly good for conversation. Evening was coming, so John was also afraid that the lights might switch on.

"Despicable humanity," Sherlock pouted. "Unable to identify a higher form of life!"

John snorted.

Sherlock might consider himself a higher being, but he was bearable as flatmates go. At least he did his washing-up and cleaned the toilet. And John even liked the violin.

Most of the time.

 

***

 

The fifth body, or the second which Sherlock worked on, was found at a museum, in the closed back room which nobody visited. The girl had apparently thrown up shortly before dying, but she had not been poisoned . Somebody had cut her throat. And it was anyone's guess how she’d appeared in this storeroom in the middle of the night, dressed in sportswear with her mp3 player, as if she’d been kidnapped while jogging.

At the sixth body they met Mycroft. The victim was another woman , young, maybe just under thirty. Extraordinarily beautiful. She boasted not only a model figure, with the addition of some enticing curves, but also a very harmonious face.

John felt uneasy and sad, looking at her lying at the foot of the Spanish Stairs in the depths of the night. According to witnesses, who had been plentiful before the scene was fenced off with police tape, the body had appeared virtually out of thin air. One moment nothing was there, and the next there she was, lying in her business suit with her high heels securely on her feet. Nobody saw her drop. It was roughly similar to previous cases, except with neither tears, nor vomit. Her face was calm, even serene.

Despite the late hour, unbearable heat was still making John's clothes cling to his body. He felt drops of sweat crawling down his spine. Everything around him was enveloped in the stupefying odour of the pale pink flowers set out in big pots on the steps. If one looked closely, their thin petals seemed to be dissolving into the night air. The fountain, carved in the shape of a beached boat, was shimmering in the circle of yellow-blue lights, and the high peaks of the Trinità dei Monti seemed like barrels aiming at the starless skies.

Mycroft Holmes appeared from the darkness, apparently having bypassed the police cordon by means unknown. He was still some distance away, but John already knew without a shadow of a doubt that he was a relative of Sherlock’s. They had the same unpleasant wrongness to their faces, something that made you not want to look at them twice. John always thought that Sherlock had too many angles under his skin, which he somehow forced people not to notice. The opposite appeared true of Mycroft. His cranium seemed absolutely smooth, snake-like. As if someone made him wear a human mask but had put it on crookedly, and stuffed it with rags so that it didn't slip. On top of that, Mycroft carried himself so stiffly it was as if he had a long spike down his spine.

"Brother dear," the elder Holmes said, smiling, or wincing, or trying to do both.

"I see," Sherlock said. It was the first time he’d spoken at this crime scene. "The diet will do you a lot of good."

"I can't say the same about you." For some reason Mycroft looked at John. "Doctor Watson. I’ve heard so much about you." 

"John, may I introduce you to my elder brother and my lord, Mycroft Holmes," muttered Sherlock rapidly. "And to his PA. John, meet Anthea Smith. Anthea, meet John. And yes, John, Smith is her real name." 

John looked around and took a moment to realise that Sherlock was speaking about the body. When he understood, however, he was almost surprised that the girl didn't sit up, coughing dark blood out of her slashed throat, and say "Nice to meet you, doctor."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said. "I'd suggest..."

"Yes, my queen," Sherlock left menacing pauses between words.

John thought that maybe he should apologize for his friend, but dismissed the idea almost immediately. Sherlock’s tone of voice suggested he wasn’t mocking his brother's sexual habits. It was something darker.

"My condolences, Mr Holmes," said John evenly. "I imagine this is extremely unpleasant."

"Indeed," this time Mycroft definitely winced. "I had so many plans for her." 

"As for the previous victims, I suppose?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"What?" John looked from one man to the other.

"Somebody kills women connected with my brother," explained Sherlock. "The first one was an assistant at his favourite pastry cafe. The second one worked at the hairdresser's he frequents. The third was his neighbour. The fourth one was a patron at the same cafe. The fifth was a trainer in a gym he also visits on a regular basis. And here is the sixth."

"So that means you’re the main suspect?" chuckled John.

"Do not talk nonsense, Dr Watson," Mycroft waved the suspicion aside. "I'm too practical for this kind of murder."

"That's for certain," Sherlock confirmed. "This isn’t his style, John, so don’t strain yourself considering it. Though you could do with a bit of brain exercise."

But John simply couldn't put Sherlock's brother out of his mind. It was really unsettling how Mycroft walked away from the murder scene, swaying a little from heel to toe and then simply vanishing into the darkness. John automatically looked for some kind of sleek black car, a Lamborghini or perhaps an Audi, but he saw and heard nothing except the soft murmuring of the fountain.

 

***

 

Once he and Sherlock went to the opera together. It was for an investigation, of course, but they still sat for almost a whole act in the stalls.

John didn't understand a word, but he was almost instantly enveloped by the surreal feeling that the action on the stage was pouring into the hall and that his companion was the point where the fabric of reality got thinner, twisting up and letting different colours in. The music was washing over the side of the orchestra pit, wrapping John in its dizzying spell, cutting his skin with its tentacles and getting deep inside him. He couldn't move a muscle, he could only sit beside Sherlock feeling both awful and marvellous at once.

That time the illusion lasted for about a second and a half before vanishing. But the feeling that the detective was something else altogether grew stronger and became almost tangible. It became the third in their alliance: John, Sherlock and Sherlock's... otherness.

Still, it wasn't that Sherlock was really _alien_. He seemed to belong to Rome, to its boughy palms, tragic pines, mighty oaks, to the greatness of its outdated, dying palaces and to the incandescence of the white-hot pavements under the raging sun. 

Sherlock would look great in a top hat and a cape with a red lining. But not like a Dracula; more like a Monte-Cristo.

 

***

 

Sometimes when Sherlock played his violin it was impossible to live or breathe. John felt like he was dead for several seconds. And once he dreamed that he was following Sherlock like Gladstone and wagging his tail.

After that dream John woke up in a cold sweat for the first time in many days, and gloomily wondered if he should move out after all. 

Then he heard the violin from downstairs again. This time it sang quietly, soporific and lulling as incense. John fell asleep again.

 

***

 

The evening a couple of days after Anthea's murder, John had no commitments at the Uni or on his language courses (Stamford got him that work too). Even Sherlock's phone was mysteriously silent, not demanding that he be in ten places at the same time. The mournful orange sun had already rolled somewhere behind the neighbouring roofs and now only peeked out occasionally from between the houses. The room was streaked with thick black and brown shadows and soaked in a nauseatingly sweet smell like rotting fruit, which made John's head hurt.

He was trying to read a newspaper, stirring his heat-lazy thoughts. Sherlock was polishing his bow in the armchair opposite. Looking at John from the corner of his eye, he said:

"Suppose, John, if I were to require help..."

"I believe I’ve never refused you help so far," answered John dryly, lowering the newspaper.

"No, I suppose not." Sherlock paused, considering, and added lazily: "And what if you found out I'm not who I pretend to be? Not who everybody thinks I am?"

"You’re a strange enough fish as it is. Nobody really knows you." John stopped sweating and even felt cold for no reason. He put his best efforts into not showing the foolish apprehension that had popped up in the middle of their conversation. In Afghanistan on similar occasions he’d dropped into the dust and clutched his rifle. He couldn’t act like that here , so the feeling of impending doom lay heavy on his back.

"What if I really were an unknown creature?" Holmes chuckled. "A monster, even? You know I'm a sociopath, and it didn't put you off... But shouldn't you draw the line somewhere, John? You are supposedly a good person..." 

Sherlock said "good person" so mockingly that John flinched.

He felt even less like reading now, dreary and bitter. He put the newspaper aside. He should be used to this, damn it.

"I'm not a superman, Sherlock," John looked straight at his flatmate. "I can't read your thoughts and, frankly, spare me the philosophical questions. Until you give me valid reasons to think you’re a psycho, criminal or I don't know what else... Until then I'm going to help you investigate crimes and pay the rent." 

"Why?" Sherlock tilted his head.

"Because I feel like it, why else?" muttered John, feeling solid ground beneath his feet once again. "I’m looking after number one, like anybody else. And I’m not a masochist, just so you know."

"And what if I asked you for something bigger?" Sherlock asked in a somewhat significant and mysterious tone, stretching the words.

"Oh no," John laughed nervously and covered his face with his palm. "Half the police think we’re together as it is! And you blew me off our first evening together. Though I didn't even ask you out!"

"Of course," Sherlock nodded. "Your body is of no more interest to me than any other piece of meat. Well, it’s now of a little more interest, but I don't think you would like this kind of attention."

"You’re right," John nodded without a hint of a joke. And he almost meant it. Sherlock was intriguing, without a doubt. He was even sexually intriguing. But... no. John hadn’t entirely lost his self-preservation instinct yet. "I mean I'm flattered and all that, but I'd prefer to stay friends."

"If we manage it," Sherlock answered dryly. "In the light of recent events."

Then he stood up, put on his jacket (John was always amazed at how he could stand being dressed up in the heat). He paused at the door.

"Be careful, John."

His face was almost hidden in shadow and his voice suddenly sounded cracked, broken.

Sherlock went away and didn't ask John to follow. John didn't even think he could follow him. He didn't pick up the newspaper again, either. He leaned forward in his chair, put his head on his joined hands and thought, and thought, and thought...

 

***

 

Sherlock went out and John could no longer stand being in the flat. It became almost cold and extremely unpleasant. John remembered that the house was old and damp. He also remembered that the windows of the living room faced a very messy heap of trash. Downtown Rome was unbelievably dirty, much dirtier than London. He also felt bleak, hopeless, and felt no desire to teach tomorrow.

He used to feel like this in Afghanistan. It wasn’t just depression, but an icy, needle-like premonition. It happens when you look into the sight of a rifle. You blink, you strain your eyes, and then you see everything clearly and a little bit differently. More crisply. Your heart starts beating slower, skipping beats, and in this bright new clearness you see new, different cracks between an object and its shadow. Different places. You can slide into them. You can slide out of them.

Or... something else can slide out of them.

Something small, grey and wrinkled, like a dead cobra. Dead desert snakes, you know, are more dangerous than live ones. They sting right in the heart.

... John smelt trouble not a second too early. He turned around, pulling his gun out of the holster under his sweater, and aimed it at the intruder.

John had acquired the Browning almost by accident, during one of his first cases with Sherlock. He’d just picked it off the ground, astounded for a moment by this inexplicable similarity between a civilized European city and a battlefield. Holmes was not around at the time. Even if he noticed later, he didn't show it.

"You were waiting for me," said the short, grey-faced man who was sitting at his ease in Sherlock's armchair. John mentally named him Dust-Face.

"I sensed you," John replied. "About five minutes ago. I had time to get the gun from the bedroom."

"Oh, wonderful." Dust-Face sighed and put his hands, which had no wrists, on the arms of the chair. "Please, sit down, Mr Watson. Your gun is useless against me, and I have no intention of killing you. Before I explain everything to you, that is. After that... well, some people even help me."

 

***

 

Sherlock and Mycroft met on neutral ground, in the public library. They both loved libraries. Libraries were among the few places that they, being Holmeses, could really appreciate.

The atmosphere was really appropriate. Or at least Sherlock thought so, leaning on the banisters and looking at the spill of blood-red light that fell from the windows to the tiled floor of the hall.

"I'm surprised by your nonchalance, my younger sibling," Mycroft said in a soft but almost threatening voice.

He was constantly wincing and blotting his brow with a handkerchief; he also looked vaguely ill.

"Gluttony won't do you any good," Sherlock replied calmly.

"Thank you for the advice," Mycroft snapped. "Pardon me if I do not fancy becoming anorexic. It’s all... this vicious heat."

"Go back to England," Sherlock shrugged. "You like it there."

"You understand that you would have to follow me," Mycroft said with clear menace.

"Is that so?" Sherlock pushed himself away from the banister and looked into his brother's eyes. "Are you sure about that?"

"I do not think you are in any state to endure combat with me... my dear. Even at your best you are not equal to that. Though one can only envy the strength of your will. To see, to smell, to feel every day... and not make a single move. If that isn't iron self-control, I don't know what is. But I'm afraid it is not sufficient."

"Of course, my queen," said Sherlock scornfully. "Even I’m surprised. I thought you were better than me at securing minions. Or no... wait a second, they’re more like a secret stash for a rainy day than minions, aren't they?"

"Sometimes these stashes, as you call them, can turn out quite useful," Mycroft objected stiffly. "In situations like the recent ones, for example. Where else could I replenish my strength? Even Rome has only so many convenient cellars."

"I'm not ready to eliminate all my stocks in one night. Even if the hunter is indeed on our trail..."

"As if your stock is really plentiful." Mycroft winced. "I must confess, I expected more diligence from you. You know what I need."

"Don't rush it," Sherlock advised. "Wait for twenty more years. Or a hundred. Or, better yet, unleash some kind of world war. The radiation will be good for them."

"Thank you for your kind advice. We are leaving Rome, Sherlock. Within two days. I recommend you carry your relationship with John Watson to the logical conclusion. Or bring him to me."

"He is not to your taste."

"Sadly, yes. But two my primary candidates were killed. There is small choice in rotten apples, as they say."

 

***

 

"They are not people, of course. If you can see shadows, you probably realised this on your own."

"It's my business what I realised." John tried to stay calm, though his nerves were vibrating like strings. "I'm not the most ordinary person myself."

"Did you think they were something from legends?" His visitor gave a slightly disappointed smile. "Vampires, perhaps? Opera ghosts? Oh my!"

He gave a theatrical wave with his left hand. John tried not to look too closely at what he had instead of a wrist. The air flowing from the opening of Dust-Face’s sleeve seemed dark and blurred. It trembled and shimmered so that John felt queasy watching it.

"Let's get down to business". John felt confusingly angry, irritated and embarrassed at the same time, because... well, he’d never suspected Sherlock was a regular vampire. But the way Sherlock seemingly merged with the city... the way he breathed in unison with it...

"You are a good man, Mr Watson," Dust-Face said sympathetically. "You're inclined to see good in people. More than that, you are fascinated and charmed by Holmes. It's no surprise, he is good at charming. Indeed, in this respect they are akin to vampires as they are presented in human legends. It's an evolutionary feature. But it's only a front. Unlike vampires, they are not even anthropomorphic. Sherlock Holmes, for example, wears a mask... I mean, not only on his face. Mycroft Holmes, on the other hand, barely exists in this dimension. He is several times bigger, which would be very difficult to hide..."

"And Mycroft Holmes..." 

"Is the queen," Dust-Face said matter-of-factly. "The creature you call Sherlock is the only one of her sexless bodyguards who has survived. They fled... several decades ago by your count. I managed to catch up with them on Earth with great difficulty..."

"So you are not human either."

"Do I look human?" Dust-Face chuckled. "One might call me a symbiont. I’ve gathered quite a lot of bio-trash from the humankind during my stay. Otherwise I couldn't have survived. The food and solar radiation don't really agree with me. With them either, by the way. But of course they found a way. They inject their own enzymes. External digestion, you know. And when Mycroft lays his first batch of eggs and they hatch in a human body, the little ones will be able to devour everything with no preparation at all. Do you want it to be your body, John?"

"Can't say I'm desperate for it," answered John.

"Do you want me to show you what it would be like?" Dust-Face leaned forward a bit, again moving his not-arms in a predatory manner. "I'm very good at showing. One touch will do. It's completely harmless."

"I believe you."

John thought that if Dust-Face had really told and _showed_ the same thing to the previous victims, the pretty gym instructor had probably puked somewhere around this part. Or earlier. And the girl from the pastry cafe had probably started smearing make-up and tears over her face at the very beginning.

"So you prefer to be feasted upon?" Dust Face asked smoothly. "Do you know how they do it? The victim stays fully conscious the whole time and doesn't even feel pain. They generally begin with the viscera. It's a delicacy and, besides, it's quite a feast for them to devour while the victim is still alive. They don't even mind eating the intestine together with all its content. I’ve been told it's even somewhat pleasurable for the victim. Your will is completely submerged in another’s. You are floating. You can do nothing. Another mind devours you, digests you, leaving only peace and inevitability. You are still alive, yet you are dead. There is no pain, no need to struggle," the voice of Dust-Face sounded calm, hypnotic, and John almost against his will remembered his dream from long ago, the day before the appearance of Gladstone. As if he was being swallowed by some dark and inexpressibly beautiful entity. "Besotted, you are watching as pieces of your body disappear into a greedy alien mouth. You once were and now you are not, only nothingness remains. Perhaps it has some strange beauty. This liberates you, cleanses you... this ultimate act of merging. Your body gives life and ecstasy. Would you like to accept this gift from your best friend, John? Such a magnificent, such a wonderful creature?"

"Too much of an honour, maybe," John replied evenly. 

Drops of sweat rolled down his temples, and he thought he might throw up.

Dust Face clicked his tongue.

"But you've been injected with his enzymes already. Not much, I'm not going to lie to you. The reconstruction of your body has not started yet, but the addiction has already formed. Without regular injections you are doomed, John. And with the injections you are completely in the grip of the Holmeses. I would like to spare you now, but I'm afraid it will only delay the inevitable... or, even worse, give the Holmeses a chance to get to you first. I'm surprised they dared leave you alone today. Therefore..."

But he didn't get to finish his sentence, because John fired two bullets into Dust-Face’s head and heart, dropped down from his chair and rolled into the shadow. 

And disappeared.

 

***

 

Walking through shadows is not easy. 

It's extremely easy.

It's like flying in your dreams.

This is not just an accurate comparison. To really understand what it feels like, you need not only look in a special way, but also immerse yourself in the state that lies between dreams and waking. The world becomes extremely simple: grey and yellow and black. Real objects lose density and volume, turn into lines on watercolour paper. The paper is thick, but what of it?

The gun felt heavy in his hand. This gun had been used to kill, so it had mass and weight. It was hard to carry, but necessary.

"...cannibalism is also associated with sexual deviations... What a boring notion..."

This first time, John found himself in this (place? state? yes, let’s call it a state) because of his fear, and later he found out that it is indeed the most appropriate attitude, the thin edge between real, endless, gut-deep terror and the indifference of the desperate.

"...you are watching as pieces of your body disappear into a greedy alien mouth..."

In his half-aware state, John jumped from one ink-black shadow to the next, avoiding phosphorescent pools of blue and golden light cast by street lamps, gliding along the roofs, resting against corners. He was also avoiding the dusty shadow of the killer, which was darting around somewhere very close, between light and dark. Blatant gaps in quantum theory.

"One needs to exclude everything impossible..."

The Spanish square flashed in the distance like a stained glass, and the Opera followed. They were weaving their way across Rome, sometimes dropping into the ancient catacombs where it seemed as if one could easily see shadows in togas and laurel wreathes. The Coliseum also flickered past too quickly, for some reason not in ruins but partially built from black obsidian bricks. Then they rustled by the holly oaks of Villa Ada, glided past the procession of little cafes on the ground floor of the shopping malls...

"Is this what your best friend prepared for you?"

His heart was beating desperately, he couldn’t get enough air, but he couldn't give up. As soon as he ran out of strength, he’d run out of life. You are caught by a spider, Jonny. As the fly struggles, the net constricts...

John was running, spinning in the whirlwind of black shadows, but the shadows slipped out of his hands, squeezed around him and dropped him on the landing of an ornamented staircase, God only knew where. It could have been a villa, it could have been the front hall of some museum, he didn't know Rome that well.

The landing was also lit by a garish yellow street-lamp. A breathing, writhing black mass of shadow was whirling around the outer rim of the lamp-light , tightening its grip. John understood very well that this was a different kind of darkness, not the one where he’d hidden and found respite. There was no way out of the circle of streetlight, and no chance of escape.

Dust-Face leaked into the light as night poured down his shoulders and arms like a film of oil.

"Thank you, Mr Watson." He sounded sincere. "I haven’t enjoyed myself that much in some time. I start to understand just what the younger Holmes saw in you."

"Quite a coincidence," said a solemn, cold baritone from the darkness.

 

At that moment, a form which was very far from human jumped out at Dust-Face.

 

***

 

John stepped back and pulled out his gun. He wasn't sure how it was supposed to help, but he kept it trained on the two monsters squirming and struggling at the very edge of the darkness. One creature looked grey, worm-like, akin to a desert snake. The other... Too many elbows and knees, although it only had four limbs... Excessively long joints... nauseating white pincers instead of fingers... No, don't look at it for too long!

Hell, they were deciding who was going to gobble him up, John thought. He remembered what Dust-Face said about bio-trash and the nausea became more urgent and vicious. He smelled rotten fruit again, and the two bodies on the grey stone continued squirming like worms in a can. They writhed and then stilled. Black blood leaked on the chess tiles of the landing.

Sherlock Holmes got up from his knees. Straightened his back.

He had already managed to compose himself and looked almost normal. His face seemed slightly askew, and John could decipher the outlines of fangs – or mandibles? – under thin white skin.

He’d almost showed them that day with _ispettore_ Lotti. Almost.

"You wanted to eat me."

"Yes," Sherlock answered in an emotionless voice. "Mycroft insisted. But I hoped, maybe in ten years’ time. Or twenty." 

John felt hysterical laughter welling up in him.

"I'm better than a dog, aren't I ?" 

"The dog was an experiment."

"So what was your conclusion?"

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he said:

"The hunter will return. In another body. Soon."

"Can you be killed with a gun?"

"Yes. It's difficult, but not impossible."

"I have a spare round."

"I know. And you are a good marksman."

Sherlock had injected him with his venom. Most probably at night. And without more of the stuff, John would die anyway, if Dust-Face had told the truth. Quite a twist.

Sherlock wanted to slice into his stomach and begin his dinner with liver, probably. Well, if he planned to keep John alive for a while, anyway. If he tried to cut out his kidneys, John would slip into shock. So Sherlock would probably want to save them and the heart for desert...

John licked his lips. He wanted to laugh a little, then close his eyes and bang his head against the banisters a couple of times, just because... Because this was Sherlock, damn him! 

He ate other people. No, not _other people_ , just _people_ , he himself was not…

John wondered if Sherlock chose somehow. Maybe he only killed criminals? Maybe that's why he’d started working as a detective? (Yes, keep believing in fairy tales, John.) Or did he toss a coin?

"Take off your mask, Sherlock."

He was going to pull the trigger. He would definitely do it. But he ought to see first...

"Lower the gun," the answer came after a slight pause. "Then I will take it off."

"Oh, no. You first. Then me."

"Yes," said Sherlock. "You have always been a fool."

And he lifted his long talons to the skin of his chin.

**Author's Note:**

> M.: That was also my first attempt at horror ever. And, oh, I've never been to Italy. Hope you enjoyed it anyway. All feedback is appreciated.


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